


This year I devour

by AngriestPotato



Series: arbitrary smut challenge [7]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Alternate Universe - Noir, Demon Sex, Dream Sex, F/M, I have No Excuse, Oni Hanzo Shimada, graphic descriptions of wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngriestPotato/pseuds/AngriestPotato
Summary: There's something wrong with the Shimada, at least that's what the rumors all over Hanamura say; beyond being a normal yakuza chapter, word has it that whatever fuels their bersekers leans more into the supernatural.You're supposed to find out how much of the legend is true, to wrestle the Demon of the Shimada into the blandness of newspaper print, but you might end up being the one getting caught instead.
Relationships: Hanzo Shimada/Reader
Series: arbitrary smut challenge [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1257077
Comments: 28
Kudos: 119





	1. addiction

In hindsight, you should’ve known not to mess with Hanzo Shimada, his family –his organization– ran the city, and he certainly lorded over _them_ with an iron fist. Even if the rumors of something more, something evil, lurking within his ranks were false, it was the dumbest of dumb ideas to stick your nose in his business.

A ‘story’, is how your boss calls it; this veritable shitstorm of ruthless, hyper efficient yakuza guys suddenly scared shitless the second they’re in custody, the monks with their neatly shaved heads and the paper talismans scattered in their wake. This, whatever the man on top wants to name it, is a fucking leap of faith.

But uncovering the ‘Demon of the Shimada’ is a once in a lifetime chance, a career making exposé, and you did enjoy shitting on the party of all those ambitious fucks in the press room, leering at you from the second the email came down from up high. Their merry band had stuffed you on morgue duty for months, so now they got to go to their sports and their politics and cultural shows with their dicks in their hands. All because they never expected the crime beat of all goddamn things to have the golden ticket dropped in its lap.

So you start asking questions, bothering the coroners that know you for any toxicology reports floating about, sneaking beers into the morgue as payment for no more information than what you already know. No drug traces –not in hair, nor piss, nor spit–, severe psychological trauma, missing memories and a curious irrational fear of the sound of traditional music instruments. In the end it’s Tadashi, your favorite cop, that gives you the inch you need to seal your fate; lets you in the interrogation room at 4 in the morning at the expense of good whiskey and the round train ticket to your hometown. You can’t be sure a common, mass produced pellet drum would do the trick, so you choose to suffer a family visit instead, just to spirit away the one your grandparents boast was passed down for generations. An heirloom, yours by right and now by sleight of hand.

And when the man loses it, grabs your shoulder with the hand not haphazardly handcuffed to the chair, and mutters absolute nonsense about still _feeling_ the demon in his head, despite the monks trying to chase it away, for the first time, you feel the proverbial hounds snapping at your heels.

“ _There’s no escaping him,_ _no running from Hanzo Shimada without digging your own grave and even then he'd reach his cursed hands into the very earth and grab you by the neck, drag your ass to obeying his law.”_

He’s desperate, his pitch rising until he’s pretty much howling in that little room. There’s something in the man’s eyes, something foreign, like another person watching behind them, and you have to rattle the drum in his face for him to let go, leaving bloody impressions on your shirt from the phalanges he had been systematically biting off earlier that week.

You see something you weren’t supposed to in that room and your good sense takes off at a dead sprint; _cover your ass_ , it says, _spin a tale for the boss_ , and you do. One of the few useful tools of the morning edition vulture, make a simple crime into a story, put some meat onto the bare bones of human cruelty. Mention the bloody remains of a man’s fingers in detail, describe the sound the cops have nightmares of, crunching of teeth on tendon.

Ignore the name of the big man, pretend you only know Hanzo Shimada as a local yakuza boss, don’t even think of the word demon in conjunction with his name. Don’t look at him in pictures, avoid his men; and most of all, don’t fucking meet his eyes in those photographs because you’re absolutely terrified of recognizing the expression in them.

It works, in a way, lets you focus on why there’s monks making the rounds at precincts, trying to exorcise Shimada bersekers all over the city, but it doesn’t really make whatever has clung to you go away.

The dreams come first, insidious soft things that you barely remember the next day; until they start growing in you, gaining weight and a solidity nothing about you had ever had before. You feel them on you: a hand sliding feather soft down your spine –curling to press at your waist, pulling you in–, warm breath over the softness of your thighs, coaxing you open, begging you to take him. _Him_ ; the thought is startling, the absolute clarity of who these visions belong to, who _you_ belong to.

You start seeing him after that, in all his glory; he isn’t the Hanzo everyone in Hanamura can recognize. His skin is dark grey; his inhuman, milky eyes, lightning bright. He’s a storm in the shape of a man and you can feel the electricity running through you even if you’re just standing alone in your cramped kitchen.

The ache of him turns so intense that your nipples harden in the early morning air, your hips press back against the cupboard for any form of friction. You can taste his satisfaction then like a huff of laughter in your mind, expanding to fill the room.

It’s easy to recognize this as a display of power, even if he wasn’t whispering in your mind about how he wants you on your knees, but you don’t ascribe any shame to pleasure, so you do as he asks. You can see it when you close your eyes, pinstriped, perfectly pressed pants and the solid muscle underneath; so close that your forehead tickles with the phantom sensation of fabric as you finally slip a hand down your underwear. You buck against the emptiness, grinding into your palm until your thighs tremble with tension and his name bubbles up in your throat. You finally stop running, feel the mouth of darkness close around your heart.

You’re still on the floor when they come for you, knocking on your door like you owe them something and maybe you do. Maybe it’s him that owes _you_ , you laugh to yourself as you follow the sober suits under the employ of the Shimada into the car. They take you to the castle, away from the comforting, familiar neons of Hanamura, turn them to nothing more than vague colors in the fog from the eagle nest of privilege. The traditional architecture blends with luxury furnishings, industrialized and cold as their master, while the man himself cuts a dark silhouette against the bright clouds of casual mid july showers.

He moves like liquid, his long hair frames him like ink. It’s one more testament to how beyond human he really is, standing in this room with him; you can’t look away even when the door slams behind the entourage that brought you here and when he speaks your name, that voice that coaxed you out for weeks, desire weighs like a physical thing between your hips.

“You caught me,” you offer him your hands, sure somewhere in your gut that he will also catch the scent of the orgasm you didn’t have time to wash off.

The humor in your voice makes him frown, but he does step closer, slow and controlled.

“You didn’t resist, I could’ve brought you here a long time ago.”

“You could’ve.”

It’s not even a jab, your dopamine starved soul understands this; dangerous things seduce, avatars of destruction don’t just take, they make you _want_ them. Hanzo’s gaze is a familiar pressure, an extension of his touch running over you, all the way to your bare feet. His shoes cut a striking picture faced with them, he’s armored in the humanity he feigns.

“You weren’t afraid of me,” he takes you by the wrist, bruising strong, and you can see his eyes change in real time.

You almost feel bad, to let down the infamous demon of the Shimada, _almost_ ; maybe if the thrill of his skin on yours wasn’t raising goose bumps up your arms, or if the hint of hesitation in his posture didn’t pull at the hunger in your chest. You don’t need armor, you don’t want it, and you can see the kind of fire that starts in him, can already feel the flames licking at tender flesh. So you smile, close your eyes and lean into the darkness of him.

A part of you thinks he understands the temptation of what he clearly shouldn’t do, you’re just nearly sure he hasn’t ever answered it.

“I was afraid of what giving in might mean,” you reach for him with your free hand; caught between cupping his face and grabbing at the back of his neck, you barely brush a couple fingertips over his jaw, feel him tense up the slightest bit at the sensation, “but I did it anyway, so it really doesn’t matter anymore.”


	2. hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo isn't used to the ache of hunger and he's sure as hell not used to the realisation of a fantasy to be better than the fantasy itself.

You aren’t the first one to come looking for trouble, looking for him; not even the first reporter at that. Hanzo’s used by now to the unwanted attention, even if most of the police force happily live out of his pocket.

The thing you are though, is an indulgence; one he doesn’t need and should’ve known better than to give into. He used to think of himself as a man above useless sentiment, beyond lust or need; he doesn’t know what he is now.

Pathetic is a strong contender, a starved thing, barely the shadow of a man.

Hanzo can deny many things, but not the obvious. Not the way he watched you through cell bars and double sided mirrors, how his stomach clenched at the sound of your pellet drum, at the certainty with which you recognized him.

You make of him a striking image, tell of the dark suit and the cold office, the stark luxuries of the Shimada. You don’t write about your bare feet, the lacy underwear and how it did nothing to keep the goose bumps from taking over your flesh. You keep the fact that your nipples stay hard even after he asked for the heat to be turned up, off the page.

But he can’t fucking stop thinking about it. Couldn’t get you out of his head from the moment he showed the truth of his power –like he had done a million times before, made so many afraid of the thunder hiding under his skin, of the ways in which he could destroy them if they didn’t leave well enough alone– and you didn’t flinch. Hanzo doesn’t sleep much anymore, not like this, but when he pretends to, when the Shimada residence is quiet and dark, he thinks of you. Of his hand closing around your ankle in the middle of the night, the first time he touched you from the comfort of his own rooms, folding space in on itself in your dreams.

He remembers how you stirred at that simple touch, the challenge of lust still clouded by sleep in your eyes. He hates himself for the weakness that pulled at him, that tempted him to slide his palm further up your calf, so slowly that your breath picked up and he had to stop his own from doing the same.

He hates that he wants you even now.

He hasn’t been underground in at least a decade, and he’s not hurting to do it now; too many unfortunate correlations, the death of his brother and the one he sought for himself, the one that landed him here, not quite human anymore. But he takes the fucking subway stairs two at the time because that’s the only way you move around the city.

And when he boards the car just a few steps behind you, at least Hanzo can be glad that he hasn’t lost practice; hunting in person is another thing he doesn’t do regularly, but he doesn’t like the thought of his men touching you. In fact, he has to stuff his fists in his pockets at the mere idea, just to keep his hands from itching to grab you –to tighten around your throat, if he has to be honest. To make you come on his fingers, too.

You turn to him as soon as the tune of the closing doors dies down, like you were expecting him, like you can see him even when he’s not there.

Maybe you can. It curls pleasantly in his mind. Maybe you’ve been feeling him on you, all around you, the same way he has; magnet locked onto that rainy afternoon and your pretty mouth, grinning so wide it was startling when you pushed the envelope stuffed with cash back across the table.

“Your money is the least interesting thing about you,” you laughed, tinged with hysteria, already tapping your phone for a cab.

Hanzo can hear the same off note in your chuckle now, in this empty subway in the middle of the night, so late that it’s almost early.

“Are you here for a corrections corner?” you move towards him, wearing some sort of fond smile. And your body reacts to the closeness like a wave coming in, tearing at him, thorns lining his lower abdomen. He could fucking scream when your chest heaves, hair rising along your arms, but he doesn’t; he leans in to grab your neck instead, to hold his palm against the vulnerable base of your skull and his thumb over your rushing pulse.

He’s done this before many times, in a place beyond physical, and the flesh remembers, his and yours both. So he crashes forward, kisses you like it might kill him, hungry, begging for it. He could fuck you right here, he thinks, could crowd you against the shitty seats and pound into you until you’re sore and he’s dripping down your thighs, and you wouldn’t stop him.

“I wouldn’t,” you say, the only way he realizes he’s speaking out loud, “fill me up, fuck…”

He will, he does, but not before he drags you back above ground and out of the sick looking fluorescents. Hanzo hurries you in the general direction of your apartment simply because it’s closer, because he has to wait less to be pulling your clothes off, bumping into things in the cramped space. He even ignores the spreading glass and white flowers that spill out of a broken vase in favor of your hands as they sneak down the front of his pants, to pump his cock into hardness.

The world tilts when he’s finally thrusting into you and you mumble out his name into the crook of his neck. This too, is familiar, your breathless laughter, the way you keen for him.

You kiss him even when he presses your knees up against your breasts, even when his control slips and his skin darkens gradually, the ink on his shoulder shifting to the red face of the demon over his heart. He comes when you gasp at the sight, when your cunt tightens around him and your skin flushes like you’re mirroring his transformation, taking his very nature into your own body.

That night Hanzo doesn’t just sleep; he doesn’t even register unconsciousness, just crashes into the next morning. It’s the best rest he’s had in years, waking up in this cramped little bed, still naked in more ways than one, with his thigh between yours and the carnal, almost obscene scent of flowers rising around him.

He takes you again as soon as you stir, face down over the pillows; his legs stark grey against the white sheets. And he doesn’t mind at all the crescents of your fingernails digging into the meat of him, making him bleed for the first time in so long that he can’t remember how much time he spent alone in that goddamned castle.

He shoves his entire frame against you, touching you from shoulders to knees; Hanzo’s arm flexes against your collarbone and he forces himself to not think about the quiet of the Shimada residence. He focuses on the way you come around him, spine curving and screaming his name loud enough to wake up the neighbors and tries not to see empty hallways in his mind’s eye.

His men show up looking for him and he goes with them easily enough. He puts the human mask back on to leave, to avoid making more of a scene, as if the ominous black cars all over the block don’t call attention. But he leaves you bitten and bruised, delaying his retreat until you promise to call him, to keep offering him this, desire so sweet and ripe that it borders on rot, on decaying as soon as it peaks if he doesn’t rush to take advantage of it.

He takes your laughter back with him, a biting kiss and the sensation of your nipples pressed to his chest, and it makes him feel so unhinged that he masturbates to the memory of it in the fucking backseat.


	3. possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've never hoped for a happy ending, but that doesn't mean you won't finish what you started. It doesn't mean you won't do anything to end up on top, no matter who has to burn in your wake.

You don’t know who started the rumor about you being ‘possessed’ around your building, though you’re pretty sure it was the old batty bitch next door, since she’s the one slipping you a card for an exorcist in the hallway like the world’s lamest drug deal. Hanamura’s remarkably shitty at keeping its secrets, and it’s not like you’ve been trying for discretion, so you almost feel bad for her. Must be tough hearing you and Hanzo going at it through the paper thin walls and know she isn’t you, isn’t cherished and filled and fucked out; she isn’t the one begging for more, blooming under pleased bright eyes and sharp teeth.

Then you actually read the card in your hands and realize your neighbor might still be good for something beyond dying alone.

You’ve seen the signs of the monks before, have written about them, their gentle manners and strict eyes; rogue priests and attendants, collaborators working quietly among the normal cityfolk. They like to think of themselves as the city’s last line of defense against Hanzo, taking his men from under his influence, hoping to weaken the Shimada, to draw out the demon.

You’re a witness of how the old rituals worked poorly half the time, too; but this is not something you can just observe any longer, not when you’ve brokered yourself away in exchange for full ownership of Hanzo and the pleasures he offers.

So you crush the card carefully in your hand, wrinkle it just right to make sure the nosy bitch can recognize it at first glance, and you toss it right outside her door. You hear her pause when she returns, soon followed by the anxious jittering of her picking the thing back up and slamming her door shut behind her.

She’s smart enough to realize that listening through the walls goes both ways, though she apparently hasn’t been curious enough to figure out that the back of the bathroom cabinet is one single sheet of drywall from both sides and that, if you keep the mirror open, you can make out every word she whispers into the phone. Even better, she paints such a picture of nice black cars and expensive suits that you’re pretty sure you’re bumped up to Premium Possession in less than five minutes flat.

If there’s one thing that doesn’t sit right with you, is that the food in your fridge isn’t gonna hold till this shitshow’s done, but it’s worth losing that for the pitiful little thing you are when the exorcists finally knock on your door a couple days later. You’ve even forgone showers; you know you can rely on the kindness of these strangers, and the men that come get you don’t disappoint. You’re cleaned and fed, whisked away to their secret keep, leaving only your empty apartment, dead air on the end of a call to Hanzo’s number.

It takes no time at all to feel the prickling on your skin, the pressure between your hips. Hanzo’s looking for you and the well tuned biwa of your body answers gladly, playing the song these young priests want to hear. A story of darkness that won’t let you go, mumbling how thankful you are for them and their solutions, old as the simple shime torii that’s been keeping them hidden from your demon all this time.

The temple is more of a cliché that you could ever conjure up, high ceilings and paper screens; the thick wooden door you end up sealed behind a relic of a time when sieges happened to be an everyday concern.

You wonder if Hanzo would like it, ancient as he is too. If this will be another fantasy you indulge in, if he’d want to strip you of the old school underclothes, make you come over the simple tatami floors.

You can’t help thinking about it, even as your mouth offers empty gratitude for the amulets sewn into the fabric and the -honestly ridiculous- amount of talismans these monks leave you with to rest for the night. Things you have to carefully peel away as soon as the door closes.

The tingling ebbs and flows, cresting under your skin as the last paper falls to the floor. Vague electricity becomes fingers in your hair, warm palms on your cheeks, milky eyes checking you’re still a single piece. You lean into Hanzo’s touch, reach for the familiar dark skin of this form, your hand over a heart that beats the same like this or under his human disguise.

“They want to know where the demon hides in the ranks of the Shimada,” you hardly have to do more than think the words when you’re touching him, “want to know who controls him.”

“Do they know they’ve found their prize?”

He asks, sliding his hands down so slowly that the deep red ink peeking under his collar seems to have a life of its own. The demon watches you when Hanzo traces your collarbones, cups your breasts until you sigh out his name.

“No, but now you’ve found yours.”

His huff of a laugh brushes against your temple, foreplay for a kiss that fills you completely of him, the lightning he carries, for the fleeting second before he returns to his body. You know he’s coming for you, feel him even in this wooded area just outside Hanamura, magnet pulled to you.

You still manage to sneak out of whatever storage room you were left in, force your body to focus enough to keep from shaking, even naked as you are. The lantern you swipe from the garden warms you up soon enough anyway, as the fire climbs, eating away at the shimenawa. When someone finally finds you, when the monks rush to try and guard themselves against Hanzo again, you put up a hell of a fight just to see the way his expression shifts when he finds you beaten and bruised and subdued.

You can almost see your boss’ face too, when you write this conclusion, show up black and blue with the story of the religious fanatics that convinced highly suggestible men that the city was being haunted by a demon. And you can’t help but melt into Hanzo’s hold as he finally reaches you, laugh into his kiss; he’s aflame too, cutting through the forest like a thunderstorm rolling in, his presence so intense that you forget the iron taste of blood in your mouth.

This makeshift temple will be nothing but a scorch mark by the morning, but not before your demon takes his sweet time fucking you in the dais; not before you’re screaming his name as his men eliminate the last obstacle in the way of his empire.


	4. appetite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the only difference between appetite and hunger is choice, and you've chosen this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i uh ended up writing this as an epilogue so if you're not into a light smattering of breeding kink and unrealized fantasies of sexual cannibalism then you don't have to read it to get a full story
> 
> but if you do, same hat!

If there’s any way to trace it, any thin line of causality to be drawn to the suffocating pressure of lust over your chest, ballooning with every breath you attempt; you’re sure to find the first stroke in that night, in the din of destruction, in the eyes of the Shimada bersekers.

It’s in the way Hanzo changes after it. You had once off handedly wondered if his private personality was a lucky coincidence or one of the operating qualities of being a demon; he was quick to dismiss his men, careful to keep mostly closed doors between him and whoever might witness him taking his pleasure.

Now, you’re not complaining; but it does come as a surprise when he stops you in the hallway, right outside your apartment, pulls you in with a firm palm over the dip of your waist. He doesn’t kiss you immediately, just takes a second to breath a laugh at the sound you make, the fingers of his free hand ghosting over a fading bruise lining your jaw. Hanzo’s hips shift, urge you to rock into him, to let him part your thighs with his and you do, dig your nails into the waistband of his pants to avoid wrinkling his sharp white shirt.

A strangled gasp, too scared to be yours makes you look up. You understand then, can’t help the grin you flash at the bitch next door where she stands at the end of the hall, frozen and completely blocked off from her place.

Your demon stakes his claim, smug as can be, a single chaste kiss before he leads you away. You moan at the memory, in this tower of his; arch as his fingers curl up inside you, thinking about those same hands sliding over your neck in the back of the car, on display for Hanzo’s men for the split second it takes them to readjust their line of sight.

He wants them to see, wants the minute flicker of uncertainty. He relishes it as much as he does having you here, chasing his fingertips, grinding into his palm. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to when he can pour it out into your waiting tongue, open his mind to you.

Hanzo knows nothing if not balance, learned it the hard way a long time ago, you can see traces of it still like building blocks of who he is. He wants to own you. His possession assumes self surrender.

_I was afraid of what giving in might mean_. You hear your own voice in his head, feel the cat like satisfaction of finally understanding what you meant.

“You did it anyway,” you say, out loud so it reaches the high ceilings, lasts a little longer than your breath. You reach for him, lick yourself off his knuckles, climb on his lap and beg for it. The shocking, instinctual thing that tightens his stomach, punches the air out of him.

He isn't even sure if it’s possible, had never given it much attention, but it fills him to the brim as he works his cock into you; makes the sensation so intense it borders on pain, turns into true desperation. Into a rush of incoherent _wanting_.

Hanzo wants to live inside the fabric of your cells, wants the world to know, wants you to bring life to the salted earth of his existence.

_An heir._

The thought is rabid. Poisonous. Makes his orgasm hang close, taunting him. Hanzo doesn’t believe in any divinity that might have resided in this place, not anymore; it’s not about how holy the space, how unclean his presence. This is an offering, burning in a shrine of his own creation, burning for you.

It makes _you_ salivate, your gums ache. You could bite him, really could, take him as deeply as he yearns for you to do. You could come with the warm flood of his blood in your mouth, devour him whole.

You sob at the idea, kiss your demon instead, tense around him, mumble his name against his mouth.

He comes so hard that it brings the rumble of a storm from somewhere over the horizon, and when he holds your face in his hands in the aftermath, he smiles in a way you’ve never seen before.


End file.
